


The Way You Catch The Light

by RosieofCorona



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Game of Thrones - Freeform, House Lannister, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Pre-Game of Thrones, Tywin Lannister - Freeform, a song of ice and fire - Freeform, aerys is a little shit, joanna lannister - Freeform, tywin and joanna are all that matters, tywin x joanna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 22:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15716607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosieofCorona/pseuds/RosieofCorona
Summary: Hello, dewdrops! I’m back w/ more Lannister fluff for your day! Here is a lil pre-ASOIAF ficlet about Tywin and Joanna’s wedding day that may or may not become a part of a bigger piece I’ve been working on.(The only real warning here is implied assault, so please avoid if that will upset you.)Please do feel free to comment or leave whatever feedback you feel compelled to share! I'm so excited to hear from folks here or on my tumblr (lanaxdelxbae), and I'm happy to hear your thoughts on how I can improve.As always, thank you for reading!





	The Way You Catch The Light

“Ready?”

Damon looks to his sister, grinning. She takes his arm when he offers it, runs her free hand down her dress once more to smooth any stray wrinkles she may have missed the first hundred times. When she is satisfied, or as close to it as she is like to get, Joanna straightens, nods. She is ready.

The doors of Baelor’s Sept are so heavy that even the largest of the guards strain against them, and the ground shakes with their opening. The wood groans deeply on its hinges, a sound like a giant’s yawn, the mouth opening wider and wider as if to swallow her whole. Damon feels her grip tighten around his arm as the hall, aswarm with spectators, comes into full view. She glances at her brother with pleading eyes, her voice just above a whisper. “Don’t let me fall.”

“Never,” he says, and gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Cousin or not, Tywin would have my head.” He is pleased that it makes her smile. If only for a moment, it seems Joanna's nerves are forgotten as they begin their long walk down the aisle.

The sight of her makes Tywin hold his breath. His bride glows in white gossamer and silk, long hair flowing past her shoulders, glossy and honey-thick. She is crowned in summer’s glory—claret roses, creamy nerium, pale pink calandiva and half a dozen other blossoms that he cannot put to name, and with every step Joanna seems to catch the sunlit beams spilling through the sept’s colored-glass windows; they cloak her in rainbow hues of shifting, pastel light. He sees the guests whisper among themselves, some in envy, others in awe, and it fills him with pride to know that she is his alone. Soon, all of them—men and gods alike—will know it, too.

With a kiss, Damon leaves Joanna at the altar, turns her over to the man who will soon become her husband, though it feels to Tywin as though they have already been wed for many years and more. “You are beautiful,” he whispers, taking her hand in his. And because it is impossible not to, Tywin Lannister smiles.

After their vows have been spoken, their promises made, the feast begins. Songs are sung, dances danced; countless casks of wine are poured and drunk and emptied. In the end—though his lady wife and sister must first take turns convincing him (“Come now, must you _always_ look so severe?”)—even Tywin dances, until Joanna is flushed and breathless with laughter, the blossoms of her crown shedding white petals like summer snow.

More than once, the Lord Hand sees the king drain his cup in one go; more than once he catches a shadowy stare. Even so, it does not soften Tywin’s disgust nor tame his fury when Aerys suggests, quite publicly, that perhaps the old traditions ought to be reinstated, that it is a shame and a pity that a king should no longer have first rights to newlywed maidens. Surely Lady Joanna would be honored, he mocks—grateful, even—to be bedded by her king. He says it even as he looks Tywin in the eye, and the only thing that saves Aerys Targaryen from certain violence is the horde of women that surrounds the Hand to begin the bedding ceremony.

When they are finally, finally alone, Joanna is laying beside him, naked and smooth as a stone, her heart racing rabbit-fast whenever she feels his hands against her skin. Her husband’s voice is quiet in the dark, yet the words are so sharp she can almost see their razor edges glinting in the candlelight.

“Did he touch you?”

In the briefest passing madness she considers telling him the truth, but she knows no good can come of it. Instead, she shakes her head and strokes his hair and falls asleep soon after.

At daybreak, he wakes to find Joanna gazing back at him. He brushes a thumb against her cheek; he buries his long fingers in her hair. After a moment he plucks something velvet-soft from the wild morning tangle of her curls, holds it up for her to see. A rose petal, bright as blood.

Carefully she takes it, holds it close to catch the lingering scent. Mischief in her eyes, she shifts so that she is straddling him. Tywin is stirred by the sudden movement, the familiar heat of desire blooming at the sight of her above him, but Joanna only shakes her head, tossing her hair back and forth, the last few hidden petals raining down over his hands, his arms, his chest, until he is decorated in all the shades of summertime.

“Kiss me,” he says. Joanna leans down to oblige, and in one fluid motion Tywin wraps his arms around her and rolls her onto her back. She shrieks first in surprised delight, but then she is laughing and kissing him and laughing again. She sounds like sunlight with that golden summer laugh, the sound he loves so well, the sound that lit the world.


End file.
